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Authors: Alice Chetwynd Ley
The Master of Liversedge
© Alice Chetwynd Ley 1966
Alice Chetwynd Ley has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1966 by Robert Hale Limited.
This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
To
MY MOTHER
Table of Contents
SEVEN: A DEPUTATION TO MR. ARKWRIGHT
NINE: ARKWRIGHT MAKES A CONCESSION
FIFTEEN: BRADLEY BRINGS A WARNING
An expectant hush fell over the House of Lords as the young man rose, standing before the assembly a little awkwardly on account of his deformed leg. It was not usual in that Chamber for any particular attention to be paid to a Maiden Speech; experienced speakers, indeed, often found it difficult to obtain a hearing.
But the young man with the dark, brooding countenance and flashing eye was known to be a poet. In a few days’ time his poem ‘Childe Harold’ was to be produced by the publisher John Murray, and the knowing ones claimed that Murray had great expectations of the work. Curiosity silenced the House, if only momentarily.
‘My lords,’ began Lord Byron. ‘The subject now submitted to your lordships for the first time, though new to the House, is not new to the country.’
Lord Sidmouth nodded grimly. As Home Secretary it was certainly not new to him. During the past few months, he had been inundated with appeals from the north of England to do something to check the Luddite riots. If the House should see fit to pass the Bill at present under discussion, perhaps he might be able to expect a little peace.
‘During the short time I recently passed in Nottingham,’ continued Lord Byron, ‘not twelve hours elapsed without some fresh act of violence; and on the day I left the country, I was informed that forty frames had been broken, the preceding evening, as usual without resistance and without detection.’
Sidmouth leaned towards his neighbour. Lord Liverpool.
‘He talks of Nottingham, but the story’s as bad now from Yorkshire,’ he remarked in an undertone. ‘I had General Maitland with me yesterday — he’s in command of the military in the West Riding. He drew a gloomy picture of disaffection up there — burnings, machine breakings, and the like. Manufacturers go in terror of their lives and property, and are constantly appealing to him for military help. He can’t promise it, of course. Not enough men available, with most of ’em fighting in the Peninsula.’
‘What about the Militia?’ queried Liverpool.
Sidmouth shook his head. ‘Can’t rely on ’em in this affair — foot in both camps, most often. I see nothing else for it but to make this Bill law. The death penalty for machine breaking should deter even the boldest spirits, eh? What’s your opinion?’
His neighbour nodded gravely. Like most other members, he had read the Report of the House’s Secret Committee ‘On the Disturbed State of Certain Counties’, and was fully aware of the seriousness of the present situation. Perceval’s Tory Government never allowed themselves to forget that it was only twenty years since the French revolution; it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that a similar rising might come about on this side of the Channel. The war with Napoleon had sent food up to famine prices, and lately even the weather had played enemy, ruining the harvests. The new inventions in machinery were replacing human labour at a time when already there was unemployment due to trade recessions. In the eyes of the Government, industrial England was a dry faggot waiting only for a spark.
They listened while Lord Byron described with undisguised contempt the ineffectual measures which had been taken by the authorities to deal with the recent disturbances in Nottingham.
‘Wonder if he can suggest anything better?’ muttered Liverpool impatiently. ‘These writer chaps are all the same — look how bitterly Sheridan opposed this Bill when it came up before the Commons — nothing constructive to offer in its place, though.’
‘Well, at least it sounds as though this one will be in favour of it,’ replied Sidmouth. ‘If he don’t like what’s being done already, presumably he’ll support more stringent methods.’
He yawned discreetly. He had been late to bed, and up at an unseasonable hour that morning on affairs of State. He allowed himself to slump forward a little on the bench, and closed his eyes. Words drifted over his nodding head.
He sat up again suddenly at a change in the note of the speaker’s voice.
‘These men,’ declaimed Lord Byron, in challenging tones, ‘are liable to conviction on the clearest evidence of the capital crime of —
poverty
; they have been nefariously guilty of lawfully begetting several children whom — thanks to the times! they are unable to maintain ... ’ His voice rose accusingly. ‘You call these men a mob, desperate, dangerous, and ignorant — but even a mob may be better reduced to reason by a mixture of conciliation and firmness than by additional irritation and redoubled penalties. Are we aware, my lords, of our obligation to the mob? It is the mob that labour in our fields, serve in our houses — that man your navy and recruit your army — that have enabled you to defy the world! And that can also defy
you
when neglect and calamity have driven them to despair! I have traversed the seat of war in the Peninsula: I have been in some of the worst oppressed provinces of Turkey: but never under the most despotic of infidel governments did I behold such squalid wretchedness as I have seen since my return into the very heart of a Christian country! And what are your remedies?’
An excited murmur ran round the House.
Lord Sidmouth groaned. This was all very well; no doubt it was in the true Byronic style, and it had certainly made an impression on the assembly. But could the poet suggest any practical alternative to the Frame-Breaking Bill? He listened carefully to what followed, in the hope of hearing something constructive, something that a hard-pressed government might do to check the disaffection and the violence. He soon realized that Lord Byron had not concerned himself with such matters; instead, he was intent upon exposing the injustice, treachery, and uselessness of the present proposals.
‘When a proposal is made to emancipate or relieve,’ he sternly accused the House, ‘you hesitate, you deliberate for years; but a death Bill must be passed off hand, without a thought of the consequences! And if you do succeed in passing this Bill, if you do bring to justice these men meagre with famine, sullen with despair, careless of a life which your lordships are perhaps about to value at something less than the price of a stocking frame — if you do, I say you will still need two things to convict and condemn them; twelve butchers for a jury, and Jefferies for a judge!’
He sat down amid a startled silence. It broke, and an excited babble of voices filled the Chamber.
‘What d’you think of that?’ asked Lord Liverpool, nudging his neighbour.
Sidmouth pursed his lips. ‘Poetical, but nonsensical. Shouldn’t think it will carry much weight with the majority of members.’
‘Tell you something though, Sidmouth,’ persisted the other, ‘if that young fellow’s poem creates half as much stir, he may congratulate himself, what?’
His companion gave a moody, taciturn nod. At that moment a note was handed to him. He scanned its contents quickly, then rose and left the Chamber.
He entered an ante-room leading off the hall. A man was sitting there alone, wearing regimentals which bore the insignia of a General. He rose at Sidmouth’s entrance, extending his hand in greeting.
‘Didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Maitland,’ said Lord Sidmouth, taking the outstretched hand. ‘You’ve found what you wanted, then?’
General Maitland nodded. ‘Three men — Government intelligence agents, they call themselves. Spies, in plain Army language. Their part will be to mingle with the workers in the West Riding, and try to get themselves sworn into this damned Luddite Brotherhood. I’ve posted them off straight away to Colonel Grey, who’s stationed in Halifax. He tells me that he’s already found a good opening for one of ’em, at least — seems he knows of a manufacturer up there who used to be an Army man himself, and who’s willing to employ a spy in his mill. From what Grey tells me, it must be a welcome change to find a manufacturer who’s prepared to stand out against these damned Luddites. They’re all scared to death, and begging for military help.’
‘If only we could spare more troops for the disaffected areas — ’
The General shook his head. ‘Hopeless, with the bulk of our men fighting in the Peninsula. However, if once we get our hands on the ringleaders, it shouldn’t be difficult to quash this affair. I’m depending on these spies to help us with that.’
‘Do you know anything of this so-called General Ludd who’s said to be the chief ringleader?’
General Maitland gave a short laugh. ‘There’s no such man, m’lord. There is no national leader, thank God, though undoubtedly each locality has its own ringleaders. I’m told on good authority that the name Luddite derives from a Nottingham apprentice — one Ned Ludd — who broke a stocking frame in a fit of temper after having been whipped by his master for idleness. Hence all machine breakers are Luddites.’
‘But what about all the threatening letters I’ve been shown which were signed “General Ludd”?’
‘Yes, I’ve seen ’em, too; sent to manufacturers threatening action if they bring machines into the mill. They’re sometimes signed “General Snipshears” in the West Riding. It’s all one.’ He shrugged forcefully. ‘There’s no real General Ludd, but it’s a convenient name for putting to an incriminating document.’
‘So you’re satisfied that there is no central control of this movement?’
The General nodded emphatically. ‘Certain of it, m’lord. These are simply isolated local outbreaks. Admittedly, one serves to spur on another, but I’m confident that there’s no organization on a national scale. Come to think of it, how could there be? These people have no money for campaigns, nor the freedom to move about the country at will. Half of ’em can’t read or write. How can they achieve any co-ordination of effort?’
‘I sincerely hope you’re in the right of it,’ returned Lord Sidmouth with a frown. ‘I must confess that I shan’t feel easy until we have some of these ringleaders safely behind bars. I don’t know — three spies doesn’t seem enough — ’
‘More would defeat the object by drawing attention to themselves. Colonel Grey is satisfied, m’lord. Leave it in his hands — he’s a sound man.’
‘He’s stationed in Halifax, you say? That’s right in the seat of the West Riding troubles, at any rate. I tell you, Maitland — ’
He broke off, as a knock sounded on the door.
In response to his summons, a clerk entered, and handed him a letter.
Lord Sidmouth dismissed the man with a nod, and broke the seal. For a moment, he read in silence, frowning heavily: then he threw the paper down on the table in disgust.
‘More news from Yorkshire,’ he explained briefly. ‘Fresh outrages — two mills attacked near Leeds, shearing frames broken and extensive damage done to the premises. My God, will this kind of thing never end? A magistrate at Horbury is appealing to all manufacturers to get rid of their machines, so as not to incite riots. A
magistrate
, mark you, Maitland! If the law is to condone these outrages, then we’re already living in a state of revolution! What say you?’
The General smiled grimly. ‘I, m’lord? I say, bide your time. Well see who’ll carry the day in the end, never fear.’